In our Minneapolis home, the holidays have always carried the scent of cinnamon, cloves, and warm honey, the unmistakable aroma of baklava baking in the oven. But before the sweetness came the sound, the steady rhythm of my grandmother Antoinette’s walnut smasher hitting the cutting board. That sound marked the beginning of every celebration.

The smasher isn’t fancy. It is a heavy old metal meat tenderizer, worn smooth from decades of use. I don’t know exactly where it came from, only that Antoinette used it for as long as I can remember. It’s part of the rhythm of our family’s story.

As a child, I’d stand beside her in the kitchen, watching her crush walnuts with care and precision. “You have to feel the recipe, not just follow it,” she used to say. For her, baklava wasn’t just dessert; it was tradition, celebration, and a way to bring everyone together.

Now I use that same walnut smasher to make baklava for every holiday, such as Easter, Christmas, and any time family gathers. Each thud on the cutting board brings back memories of her: her hands, her stories, her laughter. That smasher may be made of metal, but it holds something far more lasting: a legacy of love and tradition passed from one generation to the next.

– Rebecca Oberg

Relationship:  Grandchild of im/migrant Grandchild of im/migrant